


Practice

by Insomnia_in_Portland



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Grimm, Darcy is a Grimm, Gen, Never surprise a Grimm when they are armed, One Avenger is Wesen, Violence Against Imaginary Enemies, Weapons, Wesen!Avenger learns this the hard way, practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-29 10:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_in_Portland/pseuds/Insomnia_in_Portland
Summary: All Darcy wants is to practice in peace.Is that too much to ask?





	1. Practice

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me. What was supposed to be one nice thing has been divided into two chapters.

Darcy peeked around the corner and surveyed the hallway carefully. 

To the untrained eye, the hallway was nothing special. It was one of the innumerable links that connected sections of the facility to others. In this case, the link was between the guest quarters where she had been staying and the recreational area. It even looked normal. Its walls were a sleek navy and floor salt-and-pepper tiles. The ceiling was sleek chrome with dome lights shining down stoically. Her spot was the bend in the path before it led to the recreational area. At the moment, only she was in the hall, but she knew better than to let her guard down.

Taking a breath, Darcy clutched her items tightly and crept around the bend. She glanced over her shoulder and sighed. She was alone. Relief coursed through her, but she reminded herself that Natasha, Bucky, and Steve were sneaky bitches. Their determination to train her was ruining her attempts to practice in peace. Today was going to be an exception. By Thor’s biceps, she was going to get some practice in or, so help her, she was gonna kill a bitch! (Most likely Tony because he was deadly curious about why the Black Widow and Brothers Super-Stud were lurking around her so much.)

Taking a breath, she began striding down the hall as speedily as she could. She kept a firm hold on her items. The silk wrappings felt delicious against her bare arms. What lay within, though, jabbed and prodded her. The water bottle she shoved into her cleavage clanked quietly against the items. She huffed. It annoyed her deeply to treat them with such disrespect, but having three Avengers breathing down her neck left her little choice.

Her quick speed had her at the end of the hall in no time. The hall emptied into another hall that ran perpendicular. She found herself before three doors. Past experience reminded that dainty wooden paneling hid thick layers of reinforced steel. A simple protective measure that also hid what each room was. Darcy sighed, wracking her brain. Based off her location, she knew one was a small room for things like yoga; another was a small bowling alley, and the third a large gym Steve often frequented when angry. She just could not recall which was which.

A whirring above her alerted her to FRIDAY’s presence. “Hey, FRIDAY.”

“Hello, Ms. Lewis.” FRIDAY’s voice was pleasant. “Is everything alright? You look confused.”

Darcy chuckled. “Well, I’m looking for that yoga room, but I don’t remember where it is.”

A click to her left had her looking down at the far door. It swung outward silently. 

She glanced up as she walked toward it. “Thanks!”

“No problem. Do you wish me to enact privacy protocols?” At Darcy’s sharp pause, FRIDAY explained. “The situation with Agent Romanov, Captain Rogers, and Sergeant Barnes has caused you undue annoyance. A privacy protocol will allow you some peace.”

Darcy sighed as she resumed walking. “Okay, enact privacy protocols. Make sure you warn me if they’re coming.”

“I can assure you they will leave you alone today,” said FRIDAY as Darcy entered the room. The door shut behind her with a gentle thud. “All three are currently in the meeting with the Wakandan delegation.”

Darcy nodded, inwardly uncoiling in relief. She knew today was going to be the best day for practice. All the Avengers were required to attend that meeting. No one would escape it anytime soon. Thus, she had a reprieve. Still…

“I know they’ll be there for a long time, but warn me just in case,” she said.

“As you wish, Ms. Lewis. Anything else I can do?”

Darcy pondered for a moment before deciding. “Can you play some, like, ambient background noise?”

“Which would you like?” asked FRIDAY, dutifully searching through her myriad of files. “I have everything from waterfalls to people having sex to thunderstorms.”

Darcy wanted so badly to ask about the sex ones, but decided that could wait for another time. “Uh, maybe a strong rainstorm. No lightning or thunder, just rain.”

On cue, the room filled with the cannonade of heavy rain. Darcy took a moment to savor the sound. For her, rain was the best noise to practice to. Looking around, she found herself surprised the room’s plainness. Three walls were a rich burgundy. The facing wall was solid mirror. Darcy bounced on the floor. The wooden planks were firm and smooth. Nodding, she walked toward the mirrored wall and set down her items with care that would surprise anyone who knew her. She then absently reached into her cleavage, snatched out her red water bottle, and set it down. Rubbing her hands together, she gently pulled the silk wrappings off her items.

Every Lewis had their cache of weapons. Darcy was no exception. Unfortunately, she had been forced to send home the majority of her cache to protect them from SHIELD. While she could not protect her iPod (bless its lost soul), she could protect family treasures. She kept only six. All could easily be hid from prying eyes. Leaning back on her haunches, she rearranged the four she had selected so they lay neatly side-by-side. She studied them critically once done.

First was a beloved Christmas gift from her grandfather. Desmond Lewis was a keen collector of odd weaponry. It was a habit he picked up from his own father. One Christmas, he gifted some of his smaller relics to his elder grandchildren. To Darcy, he gave a pair of hand fans he had bought while stationed in Korea. Unfurled, she found rich indigo fabric was spread over heavy silver ribs. Silver bands lined the edges of each fan. Darcy’s siblings and cousins teased her, believing their gifts superior. Their taunts were silenced when Desmond demonstrated the secret of the fans. Setting an orange down on the table, he took a fan, unfolded it, and, with a sharp motion, sliced the orange in half. Darcy’s parents could only groan at the fact their daughter’s pretty fans had bladed edges. Desmond taught her how to wield and care for them. He even gave her a special case to keep them in. Darcy gently touched the blue ceramic case, smiling.

Beside the case was a gift from her father. Callum Lewis shared his father’s interest in odd weaponry, but favored more practical items. For her 15th birthday, Darcy received one such weapon. At first, she was confused as it looked like a cricket bat. Its leather-wrapped handle was large enough for her to wrap both hands around. Picking it up, Darcy was surprised by its heaviness. She studied it carefully. The body bore intricate carvings of skulls, flowers, and the Lewis family crest. The pommel was carved into a bored-looking frog. Yet the strangest feature was the tightly packed dark rectangles that emerged from the edges of the body.

Seeing her confusion, Callum explained that her gift was a based off a weapon called a macuahuitl. An ancestor traveling in Mexico was fascinated by the weapon and sought to create a version of it for personal use. It could serve as a saw-type weapon or a club.

Third was a gift from her mother. Beth Lewis did not share her husband’s interest in odd weaponry. She was a practical woman who favored practical weapons that got the job done. Darcy did not realize she had it until she was in New Mexico. Wondering why her suitcase was so heavy, she popped it open, rummaged around, and promptly sighed when she found it. Her mother had managed to sneak in a short-handled mace. The handle was textured metal while the shaft was smooth. Instead of a flanged head, hers had an orbed head covered with subtle spikes. (Her mother was pleased to hear it had been put to good use in London against a gross Bauerschwein.)

The fourth and final item was Darcy’s favorite weapon and the only heirloom she had. According to family records, a Greek ancestor wanted a multifunctional weapon and was annoyed they could not find anything. They opted to craft what they had in mind themselves. What they created was a staff. It was of dark metal inlaid with a swirling array of either clear beads, glass, or diamonds. The inlay was raised just enough to act as a grip. On its own, the staff was a potent weapon. Yet its creator achieved their purpose. It hid secrets that only a true wielder would know. The first was the fact it could separate into three pieces. These functioned as mini-clubs or fighting batons. Darcy brought the top and middle pieces with her.

Legs burnings, Darcy stood up. She settled on the order she would practice in. As she walked back from her items, she sent a silent prayer to every deity listening that she could practice in peace.

When it came to practice, Darcy had a set routine. During training sessions with her older kin, they always advised her to find her own rhythm. Every Grimm had their own way of doing things. She just needed to find what worked for her. It took her awhile, but Darcy managed to find that rhythm. 

First was the warm-up. Darcy began a series of stretches to wake her body up. Nothing too strenuous; just something lightly firm to get the blood moving. Lunges were added in after a little bit. Again, nothing too strenuous. Her warm-up continued for some minutes before she decided it was time to begin practice. She traipsed back to her items, stooped, flicked open the lid of the case, and pulled out her fans. A flick of the wrist had them opened fully. Darcy took a moment to admire their rich color before beginning.

Had anyone been in the room, they would have been surprised by Darcy’s movements. She worked her way to one end of the room and back repeatedly. Careful, arcing slashes alternated with rapid-fire cuts. At times, she shut the fans and made stabbing motions. Sometimes she stood; others she dropped to a knee. Everything was precise. Only a few times did she pause to adjust her stance, arms or feet. Her eyes remained fixed on unseen foes. Her mind hummed with a mantra that served her well.

_Eyes 2, 3, 4… Jugular 2, 3, 4… Drop 2, 3, 4… Genitals 2, 3, 4… Femoral 2, 3, 4… Close and knees 2, 3, 4 and open 2, 3, 4… Tendons 2, 3, 4… Stand up and carotid 2, 3, 4…_

A few times, Darcy faced the mirrors. She only noticed herself enough to make corrections to her stance, arm height or how she held her fans. In the furthest corner of her mind, she felt a kindling of pride. She was often teased for not having the ideal Grimm body: lean, strong, and agile. Anytime she practiced around mirrors, she would often pause and look at herself. It took a combination of her grandfather’s encouragements and real-world experience to break her of the habit.

Darcy practiced with the fans until thirst made its presence known. She slashed the eyes out of an imaginary foe before closing the fans and making her way to her weapons. Both fans were gently set back in their case. She then grabbed her water bottle, flipped up the lid, and enjoyed a hearty swig. Once satisfied, she set it back down and picked up the faux-macuahuitl. Darcy took some light, lazy swings with one hand, reminding herself of its heft. She then wrapped her other hand around the handle and began.

While the fans demanded precision, the macuahuitl called for both strength and precision. Back and forth Darcy went, carefully laying blows upon unseen enemies. Every movement was careful. Only in real-life would she use her full strength. At times, she lunged forward, thrust her weapon forward, and sliced the arms, lower abdomen, and even the throats of her foes. They fell, clutching gaping throats or limbs, pungent blood seeping through their fingers. In her eyes, the room’s floor became a pond of dark, sticky liquid. Her enemies lay prone or twitching as their life force drained.

Thirst soon made its appearance. Grimacing at her dry mouth, Darcy stopped. She walked back to her weapons, lay the macuahuitl down, and reached for her water bottle. The liquid was still cool, but had lost the soothing chill of earlier. Darcy set her bottle down. Next up was her mace. 

The mace demanded pure strength, but care. Darcy learned the hard way not to practice too long with it. Her back sometimes reminded her of it when she had to lift heavy things. Still, she could enjoy it. For a brief period, she carefully laid blows upon the bodies of her imaginary foes. Everyone toppled over, allowing her to lay killing blows upon their heads. The floor was decorated with blood, bodies, and brain splatter. Her practice came to a quicker end when her body reminded her of a fact.

“Uh, FRIDAY?” Darcy called as she walked to her weapons and set the mace down.

The rain stopped immediately. “Yes, Ms. Lewis.”

“Is there a bathroom anywhere?” She picked up her water bottle, looked at it, and asked, “Also, is there a refill station nearby for water.”

A faint hiss had Darcy turning in time to see the far corner of the mirrors retract. Clutching her bottle, she walked over to find herself looking down a small corridor. Its bright light revealed dark carpet, blue walls, and a multitude of doors.

“The women’s bathroom is the third door on your right,” said FRIDAY, “There’s a refill station right across from it. You can set your bottle down and I’ll have it ready once you get out.”

“Thanks,” Darcy replied as she sped down the corridor, popping the lid open. She set her bottle down on the station’s ledge and dashed into the bathroom just as her bladder threatened to let loose.

Some minutes, Darcy emerged. She had to give Tony credit. The bathroom was one of the nicest places she had ever seen. Clean surfaces, proper soap, and actual warm water; all the hallmarks of a good bathroom. With a content sigh, she looked at the refill station. Her bottle was filled to the brim with water. She went over, picked it up, and took a sip. The cool, fresh liquid had her taking a deeper gulp. Once satisfied, she closed the lid and began walking back to the room.

“Thanks, FRIDAY.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Lewis. Are you almost done?”

Darcy shook her head as she walked into the room. The panel slid back into its spot. “No, I just have a little more to do.”

“Very well.” The cannonade of rainfall resumed.

Darcy walked over to her weapons. She set her water bottle down and picked up the pieces of her staff. Taking some light practice swings, she decided to use them as batons. It had been ages since she got in some good baton practice. She would take her time with them as they were the most demanding of her weapons. They called for speed, precision, and a mastery of hand-eye coordination. It did not matter if it was the whole staff or the pieces. Darcy took a few more practice swings before settling in.

The new crop of imaginary foes smiled viciously. A Grimm armed with puny sticks was easy prey. Darcy readied herself as they charged. Their glee turned to terror when Darcy began raining blows upon them. Bashes to heads sent foes toppling over in pain. Darcy moved forward and back, dropping occasionally to whack her weapons against kneecaps and shins. Rising, she thwacked unprotected sides and spines. Foes writhed at her feet in agony. Had anyone been watching, they would have marveled at Darcy’s smooth movements. Her speed became noticeable as time passed. 

Back and forth, back and forth did Darcy move through the room. In addition to using her batons, she threw in the odd punch and kick. She even used her batons in other ways. She jabbed the ends of each into the eyes and torsos of foes. A strange twisting motion was practice for breaking necks. Darcy even reminded herself to drop and jab the odd crotches. Anything was a good target to a Grimm. 

It was during what would have been her final run that Darcy noticed something. She was facing away from the door, pounding the skulls of more foes, when she realized the floor was off. She slowed momentarily, taking careful steps. Her brow furrowed. She took more steps. Her brow furrowed even more.

The floor no longer felt- _right?_ Darcy mulled over this as she continued. Throughout her practice, the floor had been an afterthought. She sped over it like a cloud over the earth. It remained a perfect plane until now. Now it felt tilted, like something had dropped onto it. Darcy pondered over what to do. An idea entered her mind. Taking a breath, she halved her focus and shifted a portion to her ears. Listening was one of a Grimm’s most important tools. It sometimes made the difference between living and dying. Her ears greeted her with the noises hidden beneath the playing downpour.

The whistling air as she swiped foes with her batons.

Her thundering heartbeat, the smooth sigh of her exhalations.

The slap of her feet against the floor.

The careful footsteps of the intruder behind her.


	2. The Worst Fight Ever Written

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesen Life Lesson #4:  
> Never surprise a Grimm when they are armed.

Darcy continued her motions, listening carefully. Whoever was in the room with her was doing their best not to alert her to their presence. Their footfalls offered no clues to their identity. They were not the heavy slams indicative of Thor or the light fairy falls of Natasha. The footsteps had heft, but not enough to be obvious.

Darcy felt her stomach drop. Had something happened? She knew FRIDAY would have alerted her if there was danger. The fact she had not raised two possibilities. One was that something was wrong and FRIDAY was disabled. The other was that everything was fine and somebody convinced the AI to let them in the room. Darcy knew there was only one way to be sure.

“FRIDAY?”

The rain stopped. “Yes, Ms. Lewis?” The AI’s voice was normal. Nothing in her tone indicated anything was wrong. Darcy let out a small breath of relief.

Darcy frowned as the footsteps stopped. “Did the meeting end?”

“It ended over an hour ago,” said FRIDAY. “You’ve been here for almost four hours. Do you wish me to lift privacy protocols?”

“Actually, no,” said Darcy, clutching the batons tighter. “Keep them in place. I’ll be done in a bit.”

“Are you sure, Ms. Lewis?” Now the AI sounded worried. Darcy could not help but smile.

“I’m sure. Thanks, FRIDAY.”

“No problem, Ms. Lewis.”

The torrential downpour resumed. Darcy kept her movements steady. Whoever was behind her remained still. She sensed the earlier bewilderment give way to interest. What that interest meant she had no clue. It did not feel sexual. If anything, it felt more curious. Darcy could understand that. Here she was, a curvy girl in a tank-top and yoga pants, sweating and using batons to hit imaginary things. Yet the fact they made no effort to speak puzzled her. 

When the footsteps began to creep closer, an idea entered Darcy’s mind. Devious glee filled her. Oh, it was a bad idea; a STUPENDOUSLY bad idea! It was an idea that could get her into so much trouble. As a Lewis, though, bad ideas were part of her DNA. She waited until her skin prickled from the intruder’s closeness before acting. Letting out a sudden cry, she spun around and whacked the intruder across the cheek with a baton.

The intruder stumbled back, yelping in pain. Darcy took the moment to analyze him. Her intruder was a stocky male in a sleeveless white hoodie, black jeans, and boots. He had messy hair the color of wet sand. She could not see his face as he was clutching it. Alarm filled her when her eyes fell on his bare arms. The skin of those deliciously sculpted limbs was writhing in a way that Darcy knew all too well. He stumbled back a bit more before letting out a low shriek. His hands dropped. The angry face that greeted her was not human.

It took Darcy’s brain a moment to process what she was seeing. Two large, amber eyes glared out from a round face covered with feathers. Sand-colored ones rimmed his lower eyes and chin while white ones filled in the rest of the face. A short, curved black beak jutted out where the nose would be. Her mind helpfully supplied the name of the being before her: Scharfblicke. Her brain jumpstarted when it remembered what a Scharfblicke was. 

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” Darcy roared.

The Scharfblicke’s expression changed from anger to shock once he realized what she was. “Crap.” He muttered. “You’re a- WAIT!”

Darcy charged. She ignored the pang of familiarity in her gut the voice caused. Something about it scratched at her memories. But now was not the time to dwell. This wesen was up to something.

The Scharfblicke scurried back to try and avoid the charging Grimm. He raised his arms to ward off the hurricane of blows Darcy rained down. Pain erupted through his arms as he fended off the attack. The Grimm was surprisingly quick for someone her size. She pummeled his arms with a speed very few people in his life possessed. He looked at her face. What glared back was not the sweet face of Thor’s friend. This was the furious nightmare all wesen saw before a Grimm killed them. Still, his training enabled him to power through the pain and block each blow. Yet Darcy, realizing her attack was not working, dropped and walloped the sides of his right knee. He went down with yelp, curling his leg up to tenderly clutch his throbbing knee.

Darcy shot up, knowing she needed a proper weapon. She made to ram her two batons together to form her staff, but was stopped when the Scharfblicke worked himself up to limp-charge and body-slam her hard. Darcy went down and skidded to a stop. Both batons flew out of her hands. One rolled to the mirrors while the other clattered off somewhere else. Darcy lay winded. She blinked rapidly in wonder. The Scharfblicke limped away.

“Look,” he wheezed, “I’m not here to hurt you. Can we just- OH, COME ON!”

Furious, Darcy sprang up, ran, leapt up, and pounced on his back. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, buried a hand in his hair, and began pummeling his head with the other. His hands clawed at her legs, trying to force her off. Darcy just coiled them tighter. She pounded the back and side of his head. She wrapped her legs even tighter when he began stumbling around the room. As he did, Darcy looked for her batons. One lay near her other weapons. The other lay near the door. 

She soon realized she made a mistake taking her attention of the intruder when he suddenly sped back into a wall and slammed her against it. Pain blossomed in her back. Darcy did not let go. The Scharfblicke repeated this a few more times. The last had Darcy’s elbow colliding with the wall. Yelping, she curled her arm toward her and accidentally loosened her vice-like grip on his hair and waist. Unfortunately, this gave her intruder the opening he needed. He reached up and back, seized Darcy by her arm, and flung her off. Darcy flew through the air and landed hard. She suppressed curses as pain erupted in her hip, back, and side.

The Scharfblicke blinked away the spots in his eyes. His head throbbed violently. He reached up and gingerly touched it, wincing immediately. The spot she had grabbed was tender. He looked at his hand. There was no blood, so that was good. Too busy was he assessing himself that he failed to notice Darcy scrabbling on hands and knees to her weapons. She did her best to keep quiet. One hand snatched up a baton. Glancing at the Scharfblicke, she saw he was too busy evaluating his head. She made a decision.

Her intruder heard a commotion. Looking up, he froze at the sight of Darcy diving to the other side of the room. He followed her outstretched arm and paled when he saw what she was going for. His brain shouted at him to move. He obeyed too late. Darcy seized the other piece and scrambled back from the Scharfblicke’s seeking hands. It was time to reveal the other secrets of the staff. The Scharfblicke watched as she slammed the ends of the batons together. A light flick of the wrist turned batons into a staff. His eyes widened when she began to spin it with a nimbleness only years of practice could achieve. She alternated between using two hands and one. 

Darcy took a moment to enjoy the feel of the staff. Of her myriad of weapons, this was one of the few she considered like a trusted friend. It never failed her when it was needed. The lessened weight enabled her to show off a bit. Sure, she was a Grimm, but it never hurt to bask in her skills. Alas, she knew she could not enjoy herself forever. She stopped her twirling and settled into a defensive posture. Her hands wrapped around it and, with a light squeeze, revealed another secret.

The Scharfblicke’s eyes widened as something slowly rose from the top of the staff. At first, he thought it was a needle-like object as it was spindly. It rose to a good height before it suddenly opened into its true shape. Darcy tilted it to reveal what it was. It was a long, copper-hued spear point.

“Now, wait,” said the Scharfblicke, taking a step back. “Let me explain!”

What followed next only reaffirmed what he had been told about Grimms. 

A wicked smile split Darcy’s face. Clutching her staff tight, she brandished the spear-point at him. The movements were slow, but sudden. He took quicker steps back. It was all for naught. The smile crumpled to blank anger. Darcy launched herself at him again.

He lost count of the blows he received. Every spin and thrust of the staff ended with pain. Only his head was spared the brutality his body took. He had no chance to defend himself properly. She changed her handling every so often to maximize the damage. All he could do was twist away from the spear-point. She chased him throughout the room. Had she looked down, she would have noticed flecks of blood staining the floor. One thing did affirm itself for him. Darcy Lewis was not the easy prey many in SHIELD thought her to be. Pleading looks in her direction were met with blank determination. She was going to take his head; that much was clear. The realization ignited the dying embers of his energy. He needed to get her to listen. Taking a breath, he grabbed at the staff. 

Darcy slammed her staff into his arms like a bat. He stumbled back. Shrieking, he tried to charge forward, but a sharp jab to his abdomen and a spinning hit onto his left shoulder sent him down. Darcy flipped her staff round, readying herself. She watched the Scharfblicke carefully. He was trying to stand, groaning softly as he worked himself to his knees. In the back of her mind, the voices of ancestors past demanded she take his head. He was wesen; there was no need to hesitate. Her own voice urged caution, though. That earlier familiarity clawed at the back of her mind.

The Scharfblicke managed to wobble his way to standing. He groaned, gingerly touching his abdomen. His right hand reached over to try and touch the injured shoulder. It barely made it halfway before pain sent it down. He then looked at Darcy. She gripped her staff tighter. His big eyes looked at the spear point before looking at her. To her surprise, he visibly shoved the pain aside, puffed himself up, and took some steps toward her. He only stopped when Darcy brought her staff up and aimed the spear-point at his throat. With a sigh, the Scharfblicke began to change back. Darcy watched his plumage, beak, and big eyes vanish and beheld the skin, eyes, and hair she knew all too well. Her jaw dropped.

Clint stared at Darcy. 

Darcy gaped at Clint.

Neither attempted to move.

After what felt like hours, Clint decided to speak. His brain wanted to a million questions of the Grimm before him. It wanted to know how she hid herself so well and especially who else knew her secret. (He was going to have words with Coulson and Hill!) Above all, it wanted to tell her that he would get Natasha and the Soldiers off her back. His mouth opened before any of those thoughts hit his tongue.

“Well,” he said with a slight smirk, “you’re a Grimm.”

The smirk disappeared when Darcy pressed the spear-tip quite firmly against his throat. 

“And you’re wesen,” she snarled. “What the hell?”

Clint sighed. His expression turned serious. “I think we need to talk.”

 

 

Tony casually sipped his coffee as he watched Clint topple over. Darcy froze. He watched a myriad of emotions wash over her face before she tossed the staff aside and knelt beside Clint. While it had been painful to watch, Tony was glad he had done so. He finally knew why Natasha and the Soldiers were so keen on Lewis. 

“Oh, yes,” he muttered, “we’re definitely going to talk.”


End file.
